None of today’s events had changed his mind—neither seeing Violet again, talking with Mrs Sperling, or watching his father and his amour together. Sebastian’s path was set. He was at ease with its direction and anxious to set out upon it.
Tonight’s Yule ball would bring him happiness or despair. Miss Violet Hambleton held his future in her hands. What would she decide?
Chapter Three
Violet entered the foyer of Whitton Grange that evening clutching her father’s arm. She relinquished her cloak to a maid and waited while her father unbuttoned and shed his coat.
She marveled again that he had never remarried. Although middle-aged, he was still good-looking—with a straight nose of distinction, a mouth that smiled often, laughing blue eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses and, to his great good fortune, all his hair. His active life in his parish, his keen eye for the beauty of nature, and his passion for science kept him youthful. He was someone of compassion and empathy in whom his parishioners confided, and they seemed to love him almost as much as she did.
He and the Earl had been tutor and student at university, which partly explained his appointment to the living based on Whitton Grange. Their different backgrounds—one the eldest son of an earl and the other the fifth son of a baronet—explained their divergent life paths after university. And separated Violet’s future from Sebastian’s.
The only pool of sadness Violet could identify in her father came from the loss of his beloved wife in childbirth many years ago. He had chosen to accept the assistance of his sister, Theodosia, in the raising of Violet to adulthood rather than marry again.
It had been Aunt Theodosia who had launched Violet into society following her eighteenth birthday. For two long seasons her aunt had persevered in her promotion of Violet’s marital interests despite her niece’s “failure to take”. Violet was honest enough to admit that she had been an abject failure in society and no more than a wallflower for the duration of that expensive and painful experiment.
She had returned to her father’s parsonage in time to celebrate her twentieth birthday and she hadn’t left it since, except to visit friends. Fortunately, her inability to attract the male of the human species during her time in London had borne no correlation with her ability to make female friends from amongst the wallflower set and she kept up a lively correspondence with a large number of them.
Tonight, Whitton Grange was lit by a multitude of candles. Their flickering flames sent shadows dancing along the walls, making the space warm and exciting. An abundance of greenery decorated the grand entrance and ivy wound its way up the balustrade of the staircase leading to the first-floor ballroom. The scent of pine tickled Violet’s nose. The gentle sounds of string instruments floated down to them.
Violet smoothed the blue silk of her re-modelled ball gown over her queasy stomach. After receiving the invitation to this event, she had chosen to update one of her leftover debut gowns stored in a trunk in the parsonage attic. It wasn’t in the first stare of fashion, but its color and style suited her and bolstered her confidence to face tonight’s revelation.
Violet resettled her hand in the crook of her father’s arm. She drew a steadying breath and eased her glasses higher on her nose. This was the event she dreaded and yearned for...where she would finally learn the identity of her secret admirer.
Violet’s stomach fluttered as she climbed the marble staircase. With each step, the echoing babble of voices from above grew louder.
One of those voices belonged to her secret admirer.
At the top of the staircase Lord and Lady Whitton greeted their neighbors and friends. “Octavius, Miss Hambleton, welcome! The Earl bowed over Violet’s hand. “I hope you have a most enjoyable evening, my dear.”
Lady Whitton gave Violet’s father a weak smile. “Welcome Reverend Hambleton.” She nodded her feathered turban in Violet’s direction in a lukewarm greeting before turning to speak with the next guest in line. The condescending manner of the Countess’s acknowledgement lanced Violet’s fragile confidence and reminded her she ranked far beneath the Earl’s family.
In stark contrast, Sebastian greeted her with warmth. His formal evening attire enhanced his good looks, sending her heart fluttering. “Remember you promised me the supper dance, Miss Hambleton? Shall I write it on your dance card?” He gestured at the object hanging from her wrist.
She extended her arm toward him. “Please do, Lord Stanworth.”
At the use of his title, he paused with pencil in hand and raised an eyebrow.
Violet clamped her lips together. She would not address him informally in public.
He sighed and lowered his gaze to his task, signing his name with a flourish.
“Thank you, my lord.” The touch of his hand upon her wrist made her heart pound against her ribs. It was a completely inappropriate reaction for an old maid to have about a much younger man, but she failed to stifle it.
Sebastian bowed over her hand in his gallant way. “I look forward to our dance with unalloyed excitement, Miss Hambleton.” His eyes, lit with amusement as he smiled down at her, betrayed the raillery of his florid words.
“Such nonsense.” She tapped his arm with her fan and rolled her eyes. She must never give his banter any credence. Although kind, he was given to jesting.
“You wound me, Violet,” he whispered, with a dramatic clutch at his heart.
Her father waited to one side, smiling benignly at them as he did whenever Sebastian teased her. Violet retook his arm, sucked in a breath, and stepped through the decorated entrance of the ballroom. A wave of discordant noise hit her. Inside mingled half the county, talking, laughing, and imbibing.
The room glowed with light from scores of candles that heated the air, intensifying the scent of pine. A waiter inched past carrying a punch bowl of mulled wine. Its spicy fragrance drifted to her, conjuring the taste of cinnamon.
Her father steered her to a line of chairs set against the wall of windows that ran the length of the ballroom. “If you are happy here, I shall bring you a glass of punch?”
“Of course.” As an established wallflower, she would feel right at home here. She did not sit down because that would constitute acceptance that she wouldn’t rise again to dance. She wanted tonight to be different.
And she had a feeling it would be. After all, the supper dance was already accounted for and her secret admirer had promised to reveal himself.
